Seraphim (34 page)

Patricia looked amused. “Now why would they go and do a thing like that?”

“Because our own concepts don’t define them anymore,” he said. “Now they want to dress themselves, to primp in front of their own mirrors.”

“We left the Petri dish open, in other words,” said Duncan.

Chris nodded. “And now we can’t get the lid back on.”

“I’m still confused,” Rachel said.

“Look,” Chris said, “think of it this way. A long time ago, the mind of man created a simple board game. But now, with the advent of technology, we’ve programmed that game into a free-thinking computer, and are about to play our first round.”

“A board game?” Rachel said. “Like Monopoly?”

“Yeah, like Monopoly,” bandied Chris. “But this is the revised edition, babe, and it’s got the Reading Railroad now going to Auschwitz, Dachau, Ravensbruck...See, the pieces have turned. They’re no longer content to let our imaginations move them. They’ve become sentient, willful, corporeal. The Madonna statue isn’t confined anymore to just weep and ooze blood. Now she can wear eyeshadow and rouge without the guilt. Like, those archetypes have been gazing up into their night skies for a long time, too, but they’ve got the advantage now because they know who
their
creators are.”

“Kind of like gods realizing
their
gods,” Joan said, keeping right along.

“Right,” Chris said. “But do they revere us? Not on your life. All the time they’ve been looking up, it hasn’t been to find redemption—it’s been to find a way out. As we speak, a war is raging, the factions of Good and Evil. And they’re fighting over us, just as we’ve always believed. Just like we’ve always
imagined
. You might not recognize the scripts anymore, the characters, the battlefields, but it’s happening.” Chris used his napkin for the first time, then said, “Just as surely as our minds made little green apples.”

“Oh, please,” Patricia wheezed.

Duncan said, “So, you’re saying that there really is a God in all His glory, only
we
created
Him
and not the other way around?”

Chris’s smile grew wider. “Exactly.”

Rachel said, “What you’re suggesting would have to also say that there were a lot of older gods running the place before Abraham’s God rode into town.”

Chris laughed. “If God’s as jealous as we say He is,
think
He is, then I doubt that any of the incumbents from, like, Mt. Olympus or anywhere else survived the election.”

“And,” Rachel continued, “He would be an old man with a long white beard, and heaven really would have pearly gates and angels sitting on white, puffy clouds. And hell and its lakes of fire really would be ruled by some pitchfork-wielding demon.”

“In their pre-sentient days, yes,” Chris agreed, “But—”

“Tell me,” Patricia said, “does God eat with chopsticks when Buddha has Him over for dinner?”

Rachel added, “If the Hindu were, say, on the fence about the whole matter, would God still be an old, bearded man, just with eight arms instead of two? And would He have one of those red ruby thingamajigs in his forehead?” She leaned into the table and whispered, “And, most importantly, do you think He’d be throwing the old bone to Shiva?”

Chris was mad. “Look,” he said, “these gods aren’t our puppets anymore. They have their own hierarchies now, political agendas, favorite snack foods. We can’t keep a curfew on them anymore. They’ve grown up, but we haven’t even reached species puberty yet. Things were fine when it was only cherubs and St. Peter and the burning pits of hell. But now things are changing.
They’re
changing. Old time religion’s still okay with us, but it’s become ancient history for them. And that’s because they’re naturally evolving. Mankind stopped a long time ago.” His fist struck the table. “I mean, like, we still burn incense and candles, confess our sins to purge our souls! We’re still reading from the same dumbass scripts, performing the same rituals that our ancestors performed in the same costumes with the same convictions that the gods will look down at the sacrificial altar and be appeased and spare our lives until the next full moon. Sure, the Pope’s garb is more lustrous now because it’s sheared from genetically enhanced sheep and stitched in high-tech robotic factories—
but it’s still a vestment
.” He glanced accusingly at Juanita. “By any other name, a rosary is still a rosary is still a rosary.”

He took a badly needed breath, then, “Hey, we should all be way beyond that now. But we’re not.”

Juanita threw down her napkin and rose from her chair. “I think God has a special place for you—a big toilet so you can relieve yourself of all that nonsense you have packed inside!”

She tipped her nose to the ceiling and huffed into the kitchen.

Chris’s shoulders bounced with quiet chuckles. “You Catholics crack me up.”

“You go, girlfriend!” hollered the face in the window.

Without looking back, Chris pointed over his shoulder at the face. “The really sad part is, he’s me,” he said to Kathy, who was snickering into her glass of milk.

“So, who do we pray to now?” Joan said, looking perturbed that the Almighty would have the nerve to just up and bail out on them like that.

“Ourselves,” Chris said decidedly. “We’re our own gods. Always have been.”

“That’ll look good on my résumé,” Patricia said. “Can type, operate DOS or MAC, answer phones, and forgive anyone their sins.”

“There’s just one thing, babe,” Chris warned. “You won’t have to worry about employment if they’re able to, like, reverse the process.”

“Reverse what process?” Kathy said, as if Chris had finally hit upon something unfamiliar to her.

“I think he means the tables are going to turn,” said Duncan. “Our gods are going to do the opposite to us of what we did to them. We thought them into reality, now they’re going to think us back into Chris’s ‘Ball of Clay.’” He looked at Chris. “Right?”

“Very perceptive, dude,” Chris said, squinting. “That’s quite a leap you just took. But, yeah, I think that would be the natural order of things. More or less.”

“Whoa, back up,” Patricia said. “Our own thoughts are going to ‘think’ us away?”

“No way they’ll get rid of us entirely,” Chris said. “Our souls will become the cattle of
their
collective unconscious, penned there and experimented upon. See, they’ve already become fruitful. Now it’s time to
multiply.
”

“Are you making this crap up as you go?” Rachel said.

“I’m serious,” he continued. “The collective unconscious still has its limits. I mean, given that the human mind cannot grasp the full ramifications of eternity, just to mention one, then the scopes of a man-made heaven and hell—including their populations—aren’t likely to reach very far.”

Patricia yawned. “So.”

“Sooo, if you were the devil and, after having just evolved into a free-thinking supreme being aching to pick a fight, discover that your minions are far too low in number to gain, like, a military advantage over your enemy, then wouldn’t you want to get on the stick and figure out a way to multiply your troops, and fast?”

“If this being, this ‘Shadow,’ is as powerful as you say,” said Patricia, “then why couldn’t he just whip up all the legions he needs?”

“He could,” Chris said, “and probably already has. But remember, these supreme beings are
mankind’s
personifications of Good and Evil. And sharing that heritage has ensured that both have evolved at the same pace. Two superpowers in a cold war, each confined to the same limitation, man’s inability to grasp the bigger picture.” He thought for a moment, then said, “It would be M.A.D.: Mutual Assured Destruction.”

Duncan said, “But if you’re the bad, bloodthirsty devil, then a stalemate’s the last thing you’ll want.”

“Is there an echo in here?” Chris said. “That’s what I just said.”

“So then,” Duncan said, “it’s safe to assume that, given the family tree, these super-‘tulpas’ are governed by a similar evolutionary process to our own, right?”

“In some ways, yes,” said Chris, a descrying smile beginning to form.

“Then it goes to reason that one will eventually create—before the other—a weapon of mass destruction.”

“Just a matter of time,” Chris agreed.

Reflexively, Duncan glanced at Kathy, then looked down at his plate. “Natural order of things.”

“Bombs away!” Chris said, grinning like a hyena. “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

“You
do
make this crap up as you go,” Rachel moaned.

“It’s all made up,” he said, spreading out his arms. “This reality is just another product of our imaginations.”

“You really believe you’re an expert on minds, don’t you?” Patricia said.

“When it comes to the human psyche, I’m the best,” he said. “I’ve probably entered Wonderland more times than any man alive.”

“Give me an example,” Patricia said, her coddling eyes slowly widening. “Just one little instance of what it’s like inside Ms. February’s head. Or did you make it that far north?”

Ignoring the jab, Chris thought for a moment, then offered, “Patty, have you ever, like, tried explaining to someone what watermelon tastes like?”

She just stared at him.

“Without comparing it to itself, it’s nearly impossible. Well, that’s what it’s like trying to explain to someone what the psyche is like. The only people who can truly appreciate that flavor are those who’ve actually taken a bite. Like me.” He looked at Kathy. “And you.”

Kathy nodded proudly. “And me.”

Rachel glared at the girl. “Oh? And whose mind have you been eating?”

“Amy’s,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Duh!”

“Where
do
you get your info, Chris?” Patricia said. “The Psychic Hotline?”

Chris leaned forward. “Babe, I
am
the Psychic Hotline,” he reminded. “Or, have you already forgotten our visit this afternoon?”

Patricia looked away; an uncomfortable smile.

“Personally,” Rachel said, “I think someone’s ridin’ the psilocybin.” She made a gun with her hand and pushed her finger point-blank against Chris’s temple. “Alright! Hand over all the ’shrooms!”

Chris shook his head, disgusted. “Look at yourselves,” he said. “After everything you’ve seen so far, you still have the nerve to laugh. See how conditioned you all are? Even when it’s right in front of your noses you can’t accept it because it ain’t the status quo. I mean, how many little girls do you know who can go IMAX on a picture window?” He pointed to the face in the glass: “And do you really think that every household in America has one of those? Just the sight of that alone should have all of you rethinking everything you’ve been taught. You’re all brainwashed! Have been since day one.”

Red-faced and ready to explode with laughter, Patricia said, “Speaking of brainwashing, when was the last time yours had a bath?”

“Very funny,” Chris said with a smile.

Patricia broke out laughing. Just as she did, Rachel joined her.

“Okay, laugh it up,” Chris said. “But I’m telling you, the mind is an incredible place, solely or collectively. It’s not just one universe but untold billions, each as boundless as the one we’re spinning through.” He looked at Patricia. “And babe, they’re all interlinked.”

Patricia brought her harsh laughter down to a sort of percolator chuckle, then drew her own weapon, aiming it at Chris. “Say ‘babe’ one more time, surfer dude, and I’ll put a subway through
your
universe.”

Rachel looked at Patricia, and they both cracked up again.

“Christ, it’s Cagney and Lacy.” Chris threw his napkin on his plate. “I mean, what is with you chicks? ‘Babe’ is a—”

“Bang!”

“Bang!”

Kathy, who’d been packing her own heat, aimed and fired. “Pow!”

“—term of endearment.” He stared at Kathy, hurt. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“You’re psychic, you figure it out,” she said, then blew smoke from her finger.

Patricia said, “Chris, I think your Yin has been cheating on your Yang and has caught a bad case of the clap.”

Chris rose from the table. “Look, I know how weird it all sounds, but if any one of you can prove to me that God exists independently from us, then I’ll stand corrected. Until then, all theories are open for debate, just as they always have been.”

“What about you?” said Rachel to Chris. “Do you have any proof? Just a smidgen?”

Nearing the kitchen doors, Chris said, “If you’re all really thinking about hopping a plane to Seattle, then you’d better get to the airport now. Like I said, come sunrise, nobody’s going anywhere except to hell, and I’ll be saying I told you so all the way down.” Then he turned to Rachel. “And all that proof you’re looking for will be right out front, aerating the lawn, along with all the neighbors.”

As Chris disappeared into the kitchen, the saloon doors swinging wildly behind him, he shouted out lastly, “We’re not the dreamer anymore, but the dream.”

11.

Eli snatched the phone halfway through the fourth ring.

“Yes?” he answered, winded.

“Forgive the intrusion, Father,” said Mr. Gamble, “but are you, perchance, viewing the media’s live coverage of the events at St. Patrick’s Church?”

Eli’s heart jumped. “I’m afraid I’m busy with other things at the moment.”

He was perplexed as to why Gamble was using the phone to initiate contact. Highly unusual. In fact, it had never been done before.

“Well,” Gamble sighed, “it appears that someone has torched the old place. I’m afraid, my dear fellow, that your dreams of eventually turning it into a bed and breakfast are all but quashed.”

“It’s—
it’s on fire?”

“Lustfully.”

“You cocksucker!” Eli shouted. “Why did you burn my church?”

“Watch your mouth,” Gamble growled. “I’ve done you a favor. Your so-called masterpiece was becoming a distraction for you and everyone else. Besides, you’re in possession of the seventh angel now. You don’t need to carry this facade any further. Once you dispose of her—and let’s not forget about Katherine Bently!—then you’ll be free of all this nonsense.”